"no single food group meets comprehensively all the nutritional needs of our body. we need all of these food groups. listen, i don't mean we have to have some of that everyday," she points at the scrawny sow, its ribs more apparent than its sagging teats, rummaging on the heap of dry garbage in front of the barangay hall.
"what i'm sayin is that it's important to incorporate all of these food groups into our diets. daily. how are we to do that? say protein. roselyn told me it's fine if the monsoon isn't around yet. your husbands surely can bring home the fish."
she smiles at the picture i am holding up. it is of a fat ham dripping with caramel glaze and topped with plump pineapple rings, one of the many she asks me to show to the mothers as she speaks.
translating her last sentence, i realize i was not able to capture her pun in our dialect. she asks for the other pictures of foreign foods, those i haven't passed on yet to the mothers, and dumps it back to her coarse raffia bag. straining, she then beams widely at the mothers. the freckles, already faint in her unevenly tanned face, almost disappear.
"besides, roselyn also told me that pork and beef are not sold here everyday." "sunday only," i butt in. i don't find it necessary to tell her that beef isn't sold at all at the town market some two hours of brisk walk away from where we were sitting. we only have the opportunity to eat beef here on special occasions, mostly on weddings of those who have worked in Saudi Arabia.
"so what i'm saying is we substitute. we substitute food groups we can't afford with those having the equivalent nutritional values but are readily available from around us. say from your backyards."
"beans," she says. "monggo," i tell the mothers. "i am certain you grow them in your backyard garden. the key here is self-reliance."
she stops talking. i, too. i can not look for a single word equivalent for her last word in our dialect. she pulls out more pictures from her other bag, the dirty canvas tote with a logo of some university in the midwest, and starts showing the mothers pictures of african malnourished children. she says something but i don't bother translating further what she is saying. these mothers should get it. pictures alone.
five mothers, those by the window, continue to stare at the gaunt sow, absorbed. manang talya, the one to my left, asks me, in whispers, if there is milk, powdered milk. i nod looking at the three big, strong boxes occupying more than half of the space of this nipa thatched barangay hall. the bold letters emblazoned on them, usaid, make me want to laugh at my dream five years ago. that dream dragged me into that nursing school in the big city. usaid. makes me laugh still at this only job i can get now after graduation. barangay health worker, barangay binaobao,bantayan island, cebu. usaid. usa. ha.
she passes on more pictures of underfed children to the mothers, some are no longer of african children, some even look like pictures of local kids. manang gloria quickly passes them on to manang lala who passes them on, without looking at them, to this first time pregnant mother i have not visited yet.
the rest of the mothers continue to gawk at the boxes not even bothering to feign listening to her. most of them, i am certain are now dreaming of well nourished pigs, untied, yet no longer rummaging for anything edible in their barren and unfenced backyards. fattened pigs ready to be sold for a fatter price in time for the next month's barangay fiesta.
--- j.e.g.